CERSEI
The Kingsguard were startled by Queen Cersei's scream when she arrived at court and saw Joffrey seated on the floor at the foot of the Iron Throne in the lotus position wearing nothing but a loincloth and his golden crown. Joffrey was not the whole problem, however. Next to him, on the other side of the Throne, dressed in an identical loincloth was the Imp.
Joffrey lifted his head and gazed serenely across the room at his mother. "I knew you would come," he said.
"What is the meaning of this!" Cersei shrieked. She knocked Ser Loras aside and went for Tyrion's throat.
"Nay, nay!" Tyrion cried, laughing and wiggling and scooting nimbly away from Cersei. He fell to one side, rolled through her legs, was up on his feet again. She chased him in circles around the Iron Throne. The onlookers were stunned to silence.
"You gave my boy the Spoor of Madness!" Cersei screamed.
"Mother, enough," Joffrey thundered. "I stole the Spoor from Uncle's apartments. It was I who was at fault, and the Seven saw fit to punish my cruelty and foolishness with enlightenment."
"Sweet sister," Tyrion said breathlessly, returning to the foot of the Throne at Joffrey's side, "take off that stifling dress and try a loincloth. In fact, try a mushroom."
"You bastard!"
"Mother!" Joffrey scolded sharply.
Court proceeded in this fashion for a time before Cersei finally calmed down enough to agree to take her seat.
"The first matter at hand is that I have raised my uncle Tyrion, the greatest and possibly tallest dwarf I have ever known, to the office of Vice King."
Cersei's scream was so shrill that it shattered Grand Maester Pycelle's wineglass, filling the old man's lap with Dornish red.
"Mother, we shall have to gag you if you cannot contain your joy," Joffrey warned.
"I've had enough of this farce!" Cersei shot back. "Get out of that dirty loincloth at once and back into your royal raiment! You don't get to eat a psychedelic mushroom one time and turn my court into some dirty-footed free-love fuckfest!"
"Let the queen scream," Vice King Tyrion suggested calmly. "Many people enjoy screaming. It can be very invigorating."
"May I scream, too?" asked Ser Loras with a shy smile.
"Brother," Joffrey said with loving sincerity, "you may."
A few seconds later half the court was loosing great throaty screams, just to try it out.
"The vice king was right!" cried Grand Maester Pycelle. "That was excellent." He lifted his robe and began sucking on a corner, trying to get at his Dornish red.
"The Sorriness Brigades," Joffrey said. "Let us hear of their progress."
A man in a dirty golden cloak stood and began to explain how the Brigades had had luck enough only to collect seven signatures so far. "This Mary Katherine Longfellow had excellent penmanship," the former gold cloak admitted, "but I can only make out three of the others. Someone named Gort, I think? A wobbly-looking one that might say Hot Pie, and some jokester has named himself 'Hugh Jass.' The rest may have just as well been signed by wild animals."
"Why is the work proceeding so slowly?" Joffrey wanted to know.
"Well, Your Grace," said the man, "it seems many people do not like to see our horses approaching. Many have fled at the sight of us."
"Did they not see the Banner of Sorrow?"
"They may not have understood its significance, Your Grace."
The Banner of Sorrow was the new sigil of the Sorriness Brigades. On its field of red and gold checks stood a crown with stink lines rising from it, signifying Joffrey's revelation that he had been a stupid little shit prior to his ego death.
"Perhaps the crown should be larger," suggested the Grand Maester.
"Maybe the whole thing should be larger," Joffrey decided. "And more stink lines on the crown. It doesn't look that stinky from a distance."
"Does anyone remember that parachute game?" Vice King Tyrion put in. "Where a bunch of kids—or dwarves—would floof a parachute up and then run inside and sit on the edges and laugh because it had risen up to a huge dome shape around everyone?"
"Of fucking course!" Ser Loras shouted jubilantly.
"Uncle," Joffrey gushed. "You've done it again."
"What do parachutes have to do with anything?" Cersei demanded.
"The Banner of Sorrow is too small," Joffrey said, rising to his royal feet to make his decree. He pumped his fists in the air. "From this day forward, the Sorriness Brigades shall go forth armed with Parachutes of Sorrow!"
"Parachute of Sorrow!" cheered the assembled court. "Parachute, parachute! Pair, a, shoot! Pair, a, shoot!"
"Also let's roll the parachutes around in shit for a while first, so they smell stinky as well as look stinky," Joffrey said.
Tyrion was crying happily. "This is the greatest day of court I've ever seen," he said.
"Long live the king! Long live the vice king!" someone shouted from the back.
Cersei reached wordlessly down and began pinching at the meat of her thigh. She dug her thumbnail in, squeezing and ripping and tearing. Blood began to puddle on the floor beside her foot. The relief was bliss. Trying not to lose her mind in King's Landing had been a colossal mistake. Stone cold crazy was the only way to get through the day.